


And The Veil Fell

by ErrorMarigenous



Series: The Delphic Dyad [1]
Category: Jekyll and Hyde (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Horror, Cosmic Horror Elements, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Medical Inaccuracies, References to Suicide, but also the normal meaning of the term actually, but some of that family is actually blood related so it is actually that they found Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErrorMarigenous/pseuds/ErrorMarigenous
Summary: Funny how a letter can just ruin your whole life, but the past is a monster all it's own, and there's unfinished business to attend to to put these old ghosts to rest.





	And The Veil Fell

**Author's Note:**

> At its heart and origin, this is just a retelling of the show set in the modern day, with things to account for those alterations that happen from having modern technology, but on the larger scale, it's an elaborate world building thing with lots of head canons and theories for what season 2 would've entailed. It's set in the same universe as another of my fic series, but knowledge of that fic or the tv show it's about should be entirely unnecessary.

_Dr Robert Najaran,_

_My name is Maxwell Utterson and I am writing to you under the belief I may have information about your birth family. My father, Gabriel John Utterson was the Lawyer of a Dr Henry Jekyll, who I believe to be your grandfather, with this established, I am seeking to settle my father's unfinished business, and in doing so, finding a home for Dr Jekyll's estate and funds. You will find enclosed the money for a ticket to London and a hotel for six weeks. My contact details are attached, please write back with your response as soon as convenient._

_Regards, Maxwell Utterson_

 

Robert reads the letter. Then reads it again. It had come in a fancy enough envelope, the law agency definitely existed from the brief look he'd taken at its website, and the envelope had contained everything the letter had said it would. If it's a prank, or a trick, it's an odd one. He can't figure a motive, even as the back of his mind insists ' _it's some manipulation, someone's playing you for a fool'_ , he's fairly certain it's just paranoia. He swallows one of his pills dry, regardless, and gets to his feet.

Regardless of the veracity of the matter, he'll need to bring it up with his parents. He heads for the lounge, awkwardness a pervasive thread in his stance as he makes his presence known. His father looks up.

"What is it Robert?" His eyes are on the letter and there's something wary in the air.

"Uh, I finally got to reading that letter, and it- Do you know a Henry Jekyll?"

His father frowns, "The name isn't familiar to me."

"The letter's from a lawyer, Henry Jekyll is...my grandfather. Genetically, I mean, at least according to this lawyer." Robert explains.

"May I read it?" His father asks, and Robert hands it over.

He wrings his hands behind his back, uncertain and nervous. He considers downing another pill, but it's fine, just nerves, not the pulsating, electric draw of one of his _'episodes'_. He's fine, he's just never really thought much on the matter of his birth parents. Oh _he's asked_ , but the knowledge was never particularly important to him, he just had some curiosity, and the fact his parents knew nothing about who gave birth to him had never bothered him. Now though, now he's curious again. He's got a scientific mind. An innate need to know, and the underlying anxiety that something of his biological parents is bad, dangerous. The needless, needling worry that they were criminals or madmen or evil in some way, regardless of the fact it doesn't matter what they were like, he's not them, and he knows nothing about them. He can't be said to really have any connection with them, beyond the blood, but he's been given the option of being nervous about something, so he has no choice _but_ to worry about it.

His father folds the letter back up, looking contemplative, "I think you should meet this Mr Utterson. If only to sort out these assets he mentioned."

It's a fair point, which means soon the whole family knows about it, and after his mother thoroughly checks that it's from a real lawyer, who has a website and everything, the household begins making preparations for his trip. He exchanges emails with Mr Utterson, explains when he intends to arrive. Squeezes two weeks worth of clothes into a suitcase and spends the days before the trip almost in a daze. He takes more pills in those three days then he usually would in a week, but to be fair, it's a stressful three days.

Ravi pulls him aside, just before they're due to head for the train and see him off.

"You have to get me a gift from London." He says, grinning, something mischievous in his eyes. Robert knows he'll regret asking, but Ravi is his little brother, so he can't not.

"What would you like?"

"A police officers hat." The grin widens, daring, "You'll have to steal it, Robert."

Robert wonders how much Ravi wants him to steal it because he wants the hat, and how much because he wants Robert to do something a little more chaotic. He adores Ravi, and on one hand, he appreciates the pushing to enjoy himself, to relax, to _'live a little'_. The fact Ravi never tries to limit him because of his condition is a breath of fresh air, but on the other hand, Ravi is fuelled by the same chaotic influence as all little siblings, and sometimes that's extremely stressful.

So while Robert should say, 'I'm not going to steal from a police officer, what else would you like?'

What he actually says is, "Alright. Easy enough."

_'Oh, you're going to steal from a police officer, are you? I'll believe that when I see it.'_

Ravi grins and hugs him, and Robert takes two pills as they head for the door. Glad he's packed about eight weeks worth of extras, with a promise from his father to send more, should the need arise. It shouldn't. He's only planning on staying long enough to work out if he's genuinely Henry Jekyll's grandson, and then he hopes to return home, the rest should be manageable over the phone, or email.

As they're about to leave the house his mother approaches, a wrapped bundle in her arms, she smiles and hands it to him. He holds it awkwardly against his chest, "What's this?"

"A gift," she begins, then, looking away for a moment, "I know we told you we knew nothing of your parents, but that was your father's. With some luck, it will be of use to you as well."

"Oh!" He says, "You knew my birth father then? You told me you hadn't ever met my birth parents."

His parents exchange a look and Ravi watches them confused, his father speaks up, "It's a long story, and not one suitable for children, but you never asked as you got older."

"I assumed you'd been telling the truth." Something harsh slips into his tone, he reigns it back, "Will you tell this story, when I get home?"

His mother nods, and his father says, "Of course, and perhaps we can answer some questions on the car trip."

It takes a little finangling, but he manages to tuck his present into his suitcase, and then they're tucked into the car, and for the first time, there's the possibility of knowing _anything_ about his birth parents, and he blanks. He sits quietly for a good long while, before finally, stumbling out, "You knew my birth father, what about my birth mother?"

"I never met her," his father says, "He adored her, though. He adored you too."

"But he gave me up. Why?"

"Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone you care about, is recognise that you're bad for them. He was in a bad way, not fit to raise children."

Robert swallows, "Is he still alive? I'm not- You're my parents, _you raised me_ , I'm not going to run off after...phantoms, I guess I'm just curious if we'd ever have the chance to meet."

"You don't need to explain yourself, Robert, anyone would be curious." His mother says, kindly.

"When we were given you, that was the last time I saw him." His father answers, something delicate in his voice, "I think, if he were alive, he'd have at least come to see you, so...I'm sorry Robert."

"It's...alright. I didn't even know him." He points out, a little choked and uncertain of what he feels. He takes another pill, just in case.

"How did you meet him?" Ravi asks, and as far as subject changes go, it's abrupt, and appreciated.

"We went to University together. Worked together for a while. We were fast friends. Had each other's backs. Eventually, life happened, we went our separate ways, didn't hear anything but the occasional phone call or email from him for years till we adopted Robert." His father explains, and any further questions are cut off by their arrival at the station.

All those familiar worries get to swirling in his gut, twisting morbid patterns and leaving him uncomfortable. He takes another pill as he grabs his suitcase. He really shouldn't be taking so many, but he is very stressed, and stress is the primary aggravator of his condition. Even University didn't have him taking them so often.

All too quickly, he's by himself, on the train. Nothing left to do. He pulls the package from his suitcase and opens it, folding the paper and tearing it as little as possible. Inside is a thick coat, black and warm looking, it feels surprisingly light in his arms. He stands, unfolds it, and tries it on. It fits snug and comfortably, a little warm, but they'll be entering winter soon enough, so he can certainly imagine getting use out of it. He slips it back off, and makes note of a number of hidden pockets on the inside, one of which is embroidered, _L.H_ , and it occurs he didn't ask what his birth father's name was, though the H is a mystery if his grandfather is Henry Jekyll, but his father read the note, made no comment about that being impossible, so he supposes he'll just have to ask when he gets back, or when he calls home. He refolds the coat, slips it back into his suitcase, and pulls out one of the books he packed.

His reading is interrupted a stop down the line when a woman siddles into the seat across from him. He doesn't stare, but something about her draws his attention. There's an almost translucent thinness to her skin. It's stretched in some way. He's reminded of a poorly done taxidermy he saw as a child, the skin almost torn from how much it had been stretched to fit over an incorrect frame. It had been an ugly, uncanny and bug-eyed thing that had featured in a number of nightmares, and the woman currently across from him reminds him, inexplicably, of it's warped features. Her eyes have a glassy sheen, iris' too pale to really look natural, a watery note about them, and as he stares, he realises in some subconscious space, that her eyes aren't moving. Not even with the shift of her body as she breathes. He almost thinks she isn't, but, no, it must just be very shallow. It must be.

Still, he's a Doctor, isn't he? He should make sure this random woman hasn't died on him, "Uh, excuse me, Ma'am? Are you alright?"

Her head snaps towards him, and her lips thin, and pull out, less like a smile, and more like hooks pulling at her cheeks, "You _are_ a troubled one, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Living with half a person inside you. Can't get angry. Can't get excited. You know what you need?" She asks, leaning forwards, impossibly still, impossibly pale eyes staring into him with hunger, or some other desperate emotion, "I have this flower. It cooks up a lovely little remedy. It'll fix what ails ya. It'll make it all go away. Stop that thunder cloud in your head, darling."

It takes him much too long to remember he can stand, but he does, and grabbing his suitcase, he goes to find another seat.

She moves faster than anything about her would suggest, fingers like the gnarled roots of an old oak wrapping his arm, she pulls him back to his seat, and sits down besides him, "Now, now, don't go anywhere. Next stops a ways away, and we both know you're not getting off there."

_'Make her let go.'_

Her grip doesn't give an inch, he swallows, nervously, "Ma'am, I have- I need my medication, but I can't- I need my arm- Please let go of my arm."

Her teeth are further bared, perfect pearls, perfectly pressed together, cartoon perfect and even, and even that is uncanny, "I have something better. A flower. You'd like a flower, wouldn't you, dear?"

"I'm- No, thank you." He squeaks.

_'This is pathetic. She looks like she's made of paper. Just shove her over and leave. Stop whimpering.'_

The grip tightens, and the woman leans forwards. There's rot in the air. On her breath. Something's wrong here. He can feel here bones digging into his skin, and he can't move. He's- he's not sure what to do. He's frightened, he thinks. All caught up on the edges of his anxiety.

"I have a flower for you." She says, dragging his arm closer, dragging _him_ closer. Grip like a vice.

He pulls, a futile, paltry attempt to free himself. The woman is unrelenting. Unreal. He has half a hope he's started hallucinating because that at least would mean he's imagining things, but her eyes bore into him with the intensity of black holes. Her grin is frozen on her face and he is reminded of rigor mortis. No living thing should be able to look as dead as this woman does.

He needs to get out. There's not enough room. He's panicking, and he can just about taste the spark of his condition reacting to his fear. Something electric dances down his spine and he-

_'Allow me.'_

-pulls free, stumbling to his feet and tasting copper on his tongue. He stares down at the woman, who grins, stands, and then steps past him.

"It seems my stops just arrived." She says. He doesn't point out the train is still moving, and there's still a half hour to the closest stop. If she's leaving he won't hinder her. She heads for the next compartment, turning back to wave at him before she vanishes behind the doors.

He cracks his neck. Electric and uncomfortable. He drops back into his seat, swallows three pills, and stares blankly at the other passengers. Not a one of them has reacted to what just happened, and he's not sure if it's because he imagined it, or they didn't see, or if they just didn't care. He's not sure, but he feels like a live wire, all alight with energy and needing to run it out. What he does instead is curl up in the corner of his seat, and try to meditate on his breathing.

There's no other incidents between then and his arrival, but it still takes perhaps longer then is respectable to recover from his panic, and then, all at once, he's in London. He follows the directions he was given and manages to get out into uncrowded fresh air, eyes wide and searching for his promised guide. He waits by the store they agreed on, grip tight on his suitcase, and tighter on the printed directions in his hand.

He's approached quickly enough by a young looking woman dressed in a leather jacket over finer clothes, her dark hair a short bob around her face, curled and almost neat except for a touch of windswept chaos, her eyes are lit with a sort of amused and expectant diablerie.

She offers a hand, which he shakes, as she rattles off, "You'd be our Dr Robert Najaran, then? I'm Hilary Barnstaple, but you can call me Hils, everybody does, 'cept my father, he calls me Larry. Just his little joke."

"Pleasure to meet you, Hils."

\---

Hils' driving is stressful enough that Robert swallows another two pills as soon as they pull up out the front of the firm. He's certain it is only barely legal, and the barely only when unobserved. They're approached quickly enough by a short, older man, blonde hair with a streak of grey at the temple, dressed in a suit and tie, he approaches with an amiable smile.

"Dr Najaran?" He takes Roberts hand, pumps it once, firmly, "I'm Maxwell Utterson, I do hope Hils driving wasn't too dangerous. She's a maniac behind the wheel."

"She was fine." Robert lies.

"See Max? Some people enjoy a bit of danger in their lives, and a car that goes faster than 35." Hils declares, heading for the firm's door. It's a squashed little building jammed between two nearly identical ones on either side, it's only unique signifier being the sign over the door reading _Utterson Law_. They head inside and it's obvious while the building isn't _exactly_ cramped, it's still a limited amount of space, but what space there is has been done up to look impeccable. Dark woods and a maintained allure of expense.

They file into Mr Utterson's office, Robert sitting across from him, awkwardly placing his suitcase at his feet, a little uncertain where to put it for the moment. He crosses his hands in his lap, and smiles sort of awkwardly.

"Now," Mr Utterson begins, "What do you know about your real family?"

"I've only recently learnt anything about my _birth_ parents. My father, uh, that is, my father Dr Vishal Najaran, knew my birth father, and I was given to the Najaran's by my birth father." Robert explains.

Mr Utterson nods, "I see. Well, I believe your father to be a man by the name of Louis Hyde. Does that match your knowledge?"

"Yes, or um," Robert pulls the coat from his suitcase, and displays the embroidery, "This belonged to my birth father, but, I'm curious if you know why he would go by Hyde, if Dr Henry Jekyll was his father?"

Mr Utterson frowns, "Hils, do you know where the information on Edward Hyde is?"

"Should be in the recent files. Give me two shakes of a lamb's tail. I'll find it." And Hils makes her exit.

"Edward Hyde?" Robert prompts.

"A friend of your grandfather. He's...a divisive figure in this mystery. He's believed to have killed a man, but before this happened Henry Jekyll had his will changed to leave everything to Edward. As his lawyer, my father was against this, but the will went unchanged and within a few weeks, Henry Jekyll committed suicide, and Edward Hyde vanished from the face of the Earth. This left the Jekyll estate and fortune to any children, and my father confirms in his notes that Louis Hyde was the son of Henry Jekyll, raised under a different name, if my father knew, he makes no mention of it in the notes still remaining."

"Still remaining?" Robert prompts.

Mr Utterson stills, quiets, "My father died, shortly before I sent you that letter. I found him, actually, he'd had a heart attack in the midst of burning the files related to his work for Henry Jekyll. He didn't complete his destruction before his passing, and so I sought to follow up what was left afterwards. If only to understand what drove him to that...desperation."

"And you don't think," Robert starts, uncertain, "that perhaps you should've burnt the rest of it? Left it to be forgotten, if he wanted it that way?"

"I considered it, but well, I'm a curious man, Doctor, and I can't imagine anything that would be worth keeping someone from their rightful inheritance." Mr Utterson explains.

"I see," Robert says, "and, you can call me Robert, Mr Utterson."

"Only if you call me Max, Robert."

Hils makes her reappearance, papers gripped triumphantly in her hand, "Terribly sorry, damned things were scattered all over the place."

"Ah yes, bring them here." Max says, spreading the files out on the desk as Hils hands them over, he selects a note, "This is actually how we knew about you. It's a note to my father, from Louis explaining his intent to leave his son, Robert, with a Dr Najaran."

"Are there any other correspondences?" Robert asks, taking the proffered letter and reading the handwriting of his birth father for the first time, it's a hasty scrawl, left handed from the way some of the inks smudged. He's...not sure how he feels about it.

"If there were, my father destroyed them." Max explains.

"Yes, unfortunately he was _very_ thorough." Hils pipes up.

"Indeed. So our notes are much murkier than they should be. I'm not certain it would hold up terribly well in court, but-" Max begins.

"I'm not sure I want it too." Robert interrupts, before looking up, Max looks shocked, Hils more so.

"It's a house, and a considerable deal of money." Max points out.

"If I'd found out I had a long lost family, you bet I'd be looking into it." Hils tries.

He shakes his head, "I already have a family, and while the house and the money might be nice, I'm not sure I'd want- I don't know that I want to be associated with the Jekyll's, or the Hyde's. It feels- I don't know. I've gone my whole life without being terribly curious about my birth family, and considering the... baggage they seem to bring with them, I don't know that I want to make that connection."

_'You're running away.'_

Max frowns, "I suppose I can understand that. Still, spend some time in the city, and, if you change your mind, you know where we are. Um, Hils can take you to your hotel, if you'd like."

Robert stands, grabs the coat, and his suitcase, and shakes his head, "I think I'll take a walk, first. Clear my head."

He slips out of the office, glad to have avoided another trip with Hils. It's not so much that she can't drive, as it is that she _can_ , scarily well, and with enough confidence to bend the rules, and take risks most people would consider extremely dangerous. He downs a pill as he leaves, settling the thrum of anxious energy, and steps out onto the street, and straight into someone.

He steps back, hands raised placatingly, "Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you!"

"Oh no, it's my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going." The someone is a young woman, round faced and with carefully maintained hair and bright lipstick, a flowing dress with asymmetrical layers, overwhich she wears a thin jacket. She smiles, looking around anxiously, "I'm afraid I've lost my mother, she has dementia, or something like it, and she's wandered off. I should keep looking."

And then she's off. Robert stares after her, then steps forward, and freezes, looking down, he sees he's stepped on a wallet. Picking it up, it's obviously the woman's, and though he can't see her any longer, he saw where she went. He jogs after her, eyes wide, till he spots something odd. The woman, paused by an alleyway, looking around, and as he's about to call out to her, she's grabbed from behind, pulled into the attic.

His eyes widen further and he reacts more on instinct then any rational thinking, charging into the alley in time to watch the woman's bag be thrown to one side, and one of three men slap her across the face, hard enough she drops.

"Don't hurt her!" He shouts, uselessly. The men turn to look at him, sneering.

The leader sizes him up, laughs, "You gonna play hero, big boy? Come on then."

There's half a thought expended towards running, but no, no that's not an option. So he puts his suitcase and coat aside, and squares up to get his ass kicked. A fourth man sneaks up from behind, holds his arms tight against his back, so that when the leader punches him-

_He tastes blood, relishes in it. Burns to pull free of his restraints._

-he can't do anything to defend himself. His legs drop out under him for a moment, and he wobbles as he tries to refind his footing. He desperately needs one of his pills. It's a thunderstorm of rage in his brain, and he can't focus through the pulse of pain and twist of storm clouds. The second blow-

_'You can't do anything here. You can't touch them. Oh, but I can. I could destroy them for daring to try and challenge us.'_

-does take his legs out from under him, leaves his head hanging. His tongues bleeding, and his eye's bruised at the very least. If he comes out of this-

_'Come on, my turn.'_

-alive, he'll be aching for a very long time. The third punch buries itself in his sternum, and he _chokes-_

_That's enough of that._

-coughs, _slips_ , and opens his eyes. _Invigorated_. The pain already fading. The hold on his arms feeling like nothing. He wrenches free, turns around and slams his skull against the guy who was holding him, he drops, and Robert grins. Teeth bared and lightning sparking in his brain. He throws the next guy he can get his hands on into a wall, and blinks, surprised. Well, _how about that_.

He turns to the last two.

To his credit, the leader actually raises his fists, as much good as it does him when Robert slams his skull into his jaw and feels something _crack._ The leader drops and the last guy examines the situation, and comes to the obvious conclusion. He runs for it. Leaving just Robert and the woman in the alley. Unattended.

She climbs to her feet, stumbling. Weak. Turns to him, and her eyes widen, just a touch, the barest flicker of fear across her face, and then it's gone, almost. She approaches him wary but hiding it well, "I should thank you."

"I'll accept a kiss." He says, half joking.

She freezes, fear trickling back up her frame, shakes her head, "I can pay you."

He waves her off, " _I_ should probably be thanking you. I haven't felt like this in a long, _long_ time. I wouldn't say that was a good fight, but it was _fun._ "

"I see. Well, if you're alright. I'll just be off." She doesn't run, but it's not a casual walk, either. She's clearly gauging how quickly she can leave without it being rude.

He stares after her, then looks at the unconscious men on the ground and starts looking through their pockets. It's not stealing if he doesn't feel guilty about it. Well it is, actually, by the legal definition, but he doesn't care. He takes what money they have on them, stretches, and goes to leave the alley when he notices the woman's bag still lying on the ground. She must have forgot it in her haste to-

_'She was afraid of me.'_

-leave. _Oh, come on._  He hisses between his teeth, _he's having fun!_ He doesn't need to stop. So some random woman got scared, probably she was upset about the guys who were trying to rob her, or do worse. _He_ _saved her, he deserves a little fun, doesn't he?_ He-

_'I need my pills. I need- this is bad. This is very bad.'_

-pulls the pill bottle from his pocket and stares at it, grip tight enough he can feel the plastic starting to bend, but in spite of his every resistance. In spite of _how very much he's enjoying himself,_ he still pours out a small handful of the pills, and swallows them dry. He grabs the bag, as something like exhaustion settles in his stomach, and the blaze of sparking thought and fury fades away, silenced, but not quiet, never quiet.

He grabs his suitcase, and coat, and leaves the alley. It's immediately obvious that the woman is long gone. So he resolves to head for his hotel, finally, set his things down, and then try and find the woman.

\---

Half and hour on, and he's outside the woman's house, one Lily Clarke if the information in her bag is to be believed. It's a thin building squeezed between two identical houses on either side, nothing particularly variable or personable about it from the outside. He knocks on her door, steps back, and waits. It doesn't take long for the door to swing open, and Lily stares out at him, she looks surprised, though something about the expression is _off_ , and then she smiles.

"Um, you- In the alleyway- you left your bag." He offers it to her. She takes it, smiling softly.

"You've my thanks for returning it. Would you like to come in for some tea?" She asks, smile a little thin.

He considers, he should leave he thinks, but it's been a long day and he thinks he could use that casual socialisation, "Yes, I think I'd like that."

She lets him in, her smile softening to something almost sincere and leads him down the hall. The house feels like that of a grandmother, the sort of sense of floral perfume, pastels and lacework, without any of it being visible or obvious from what he sees.

"Uh, I hope you don't mind, I had to look through your bag, to find you. You were gone before I could give it back, so I-" he begins, awkward and uncertain.

"It's alright. Of course, I'm glad I didn't leave my gun, or any stolen goods in it." She says, airily.

"Uh, yes." Robert says, a little confused, on the backstep.

"That was a joke."

"Oh. Of course."

The awkwardness is cut by a sudden buzzing, Lily winces, "I'm sorry, that's my mother, I have to go check on her. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime."

She dashes off before he can say anything, and so he awkwardly folds into one of the chairs, taking a pill for good measure. He's not left with much time to his thoughts, which he's privately grateful for, because Lily returns with tea.

"There's sugar if you want it. No milk I'm afraid. I'm lactose intolerant." She explains, dropping two sugar cubes into her own tea and stirring it.

Robert smiles, drops one in his, and takes a sip, "So you found your mother then?"

"Yes, turns out she'd found a cafe and ordered herself some tea." Lily says, brightly, "you're new to London, aren't you? You have that tourist sensibility about you."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well you _did_ have a suitcase when we first met."

"Yes, I'm- I've recently found that I have rather more family then I thought. I'm in London to settle some affairs." He explains, and then, because that feels limited in some way, he gives her a basic rundown of the scenario, leaving out anything about his condition, "So, I'm rather lost, and perhaps confused."

"Well that only adds to the tourist look, unfortunately." She jokes.

"Unfortunately."

"But you're not going to look into your birth family at all?" She asks.

"Sorry?" He almost flinches, and the buzz at the back of his brain is furthered by his nerves, he swallows a pill, and Lily watches him, curiously.

"Are you alright? Do you need a Doctor?"

"Fine, I just have a condition, my hormones don't work right, but it's fine, I have these to balance them." He shakes the pill bottle.

"You have more don't you?" Concern slips into her voice.

"Yes, at my hotel. No need to worry." He says, soft smile on his face.

"Good, now back to the original question, you're not even going to look at the estate? Or research your birth family?" She presses, suddenly intent.

"Why would I? It all seems... surreal. It feels like I'm approaching something dangerous. Something I can't see the shape of yet, but I don't trust it. I will be perfectly happy to go back home. I have a family. I don't need another one." Robert argues, earnest.

She places down her cup, crosses her hands on her lap, "What are you running from, Robert?"

"What?" He splutters, "I'm not- I'm not runni-"

The buzzing sounds again, and Lily smiles apologetically, "Terribly sorry."

"No, don't be. She's your mother, go." He insists. She smiles again, and vanishes through the door.

_'She raises an excellent point. What are you running from?'_

He isn't running from anything. He doesn't need another family.

_'It's not just a family. It's money, it's a house. Useful things to have, even you can admit that.'_

He doesn't need a house, or money, he's not particularly motivated by material goo-

_'Oh shut up. You don't need them, no, but you've no reason to say no to them, either, and would the money not help that foster family you insist so much is your only family? And wouldn't it be nice to move out? You're only saying no, because you're afraid of what you'll find. Of what the legacy of Jekyll and Hyde contains. You're worried-_

Why would he want to have any connection to that legacy? Jekyll commited suicide, his friend, and the man he entrusted everything too killed someone, and the family lawyer attempted to burn everything related to them. It only stands to reason he'd be wary about admitting to that connection.

_-that your condition is in the blood, that it's the reason Henry Jekyll killed himself. You don't want to accept the possibility of that. The reality of your situation. You're afraid of what it could all mean, and you're running back to your pills, because you're terrified of how much you love life without them. Of how much you love life as-_

"-me." He growls, low and throaty, and then he covers his mouth, startled.

He needs- He goes to grab his pills, _no, no, none of that. Come now, we're having fun_ , but drops his hand, straightens his jacket, cracks his neck. _There we go, good boy. There's a whole city out there, something brand new to experiment with._ He glances towards the door Lily left through. _She won't be back. She has to look after her mother, who knows how long that'll take. In any case, you're not friends. You brought her her purse, she gave you courtesy tea. Hells, she's probably waiting for you too leave, you just unloaded your whole godsdamned backstory on her. Let's go do something different_. He stands, grin playing at his lips. Yes, he thinks, he'd very much like to see what London has to offer.

\---

Four hours on and night is beginning to make its appearance, and already he's been thrown out of four bars, so it's going well he thinks. His next target is an older looking place, a little run down, but maintained, with the airs of something out of the 1920's. The place is called _The Empire_ going by the letters emblazoned above the door, he bares his teeth, something about this place, he thinks, is _exactly_ what he's looking for. The room has a low key energy, he'll have to do something about that, he thinks.

He approaches the bar, the only tender is an old man, weathered by some hardship or hurt, a stern and stark leaning to him. He's not a man easily intimidated or swayed, Robert thinks.

"My fine sir," he says, voice almost a growl, "What would you recommend for a man seeking a _very_ good time?"

The man's eyes narrow, some flicker of a multitude of emotions dances across his face, "Do I know you?"

 _'That's enough. I need to go back to the hotel. This is bad. I've never let it get this bad before._ '

Robert snarls an aside at the bothering voice in his brain, and then reasserting himself, "I doubt it. I'm new in London. Dr Robert Najaran, at your service."

The man's eyes narrow further, "I think you've had enough already."

"Oh but the nights-" _'he makes an excellent point, I should stop. I should go back to the hotel. What if my colleagues back home hear about this?'_ "-only just begun!"

"I recognise your sort, _Doctor_ , and I suggest you move along. I won't serve you." The man affirms.

Robert growls, low and _pauses, arm trembling. He wants to go home, failing that, back to the hotel. Somewhere away from prying eyes. He needs his medication. He feels off kilter and out of sorts._ He shakes his head, grip tighter on the bar and then _he reached into his pocket, a desperate sort of movement as he fishes out the pills and downs three, swallowing them dry. An exhaustion settles in his bones_ , something heavy weighing on his limbs. He blinks, shakes his head as if to clear it, and smiles apologetically at the man.

"Terribly sorry about that, sir. I've not been myself, but I will make my leave." Robert says, head lowered. He backs up, catches some expression, realisation, perhaps, flash across the man's face, and then he flees as fast as is polite.

\---

He changes into his pajama's, runs through his night routine, and then goes to refill his pill bottle. The spares aren't in the compartment he thought he'd left them in, but that's...no reason to worry, with his condition he may have misplaced them, or hidden them on himself, except that's not how it works, he's never lost time, and he always remembers what he does when his condition acts up. Still, no reason to worry just yet. He upturns his suitcase, runs through the contents, and doesn't find the pills. A little desperate, he checks the side table, and all the various compartments around the hotel, but that turns up nothing.

He's panicking, and considers taking a pill, but he only has a few left, and if he can't find the spares, he can't afford to waste what he has on petty anxieties, especially since it feels like his condition has been more prevalent in the last few weeks then it's ever been before, and maybe it's just because he's freaked out about all this birth family stuff, but it still means he's been going through his pills like tic tac and still losing control enough for him to have run out of Lily's house, and oh gods, he really hopes no one remembers him at those other bars. He really, really hopes.

He double checks the room, just in case, just in case, just in case, accidentally tears the draw out of the side table, and because he's not in a state of mind to discuss paying damages, he awkwardly shoves the draw back in, ignoring the splintered wood on the tail end of it, and the missing wheels. Finally, he calms down some, grip tight on the pill bottle, and spare hand on his phone, he texts his father, not yet up for talking.

 

_You_ _:_

_Will need more medication._

_Dad_ _:_

_You had eight weeks worth_

_?_

_You_ _:_

_Lost it_

_Dad_ _:_

_Can you last a few days? I'll have to take a day off to bring some up_

_You_ _:_

_That's fine. When will you be here?_

_Dad_ _:_

_Four days_

_You_ _:_

_Thank you. I love you. See you then_

_Dad_ _:_

_I love you too. See you then_

 

With that taken care of, he resolves to sleep. Nothing terrible can happen if he's asleep.

\---

Smoke clings to the air like something viscous, thick and semi-liquid in a way smoke should not be. He pushes through it, feels it cling to his flesh, tastes ash on the air, and the almost salt flavour of dust. Finally, he struggles to a place where the air is clearer and he can see further than an inch in front of his face. He looks down, and realises for the first time that he is walking on something silver. Like an old mirror, and as he stares down, he can just about make out the polish of it. A bright shine that has him staring into his own eyes, but wrong, alight with a burning blue, and full of an indescribable malice.

A low growl catches his attention, and he looks up, and spots a dog, a mastiff at first guess, a big beast of a thing. Something _intelligent_ glitters behind it's eyes. The dog bares its teeth, and it is not a grin, just perfect pearls of dripping fangs and bright blue eyes. Beneath the dog's feet, vines twist out and crack the silver surface, plunging below it and into a layer of ice. Cracks splinter along the surface, and flames lick up from within, throwing odd shadows and strange shapes into the air. He stares at the dogs feet, and realises it has no paws, just roots and vibes holding it in place. It stands over the shape of a keyhole, and as he approaches it snarls, a slobbering and feral reaction that steals the sapience from it's eyes.

Like a child, he reaches a hand towards the snarling jaw, and it lurches forwards as much as it is able, not far enough. He puts a hand on it's head, and feels a burst of static and as he watches, the dog wilts, body rotting and degrading away to nothing. The roots shrivel up, and the keyhole is laid bare. He blinks, stares down into it, and frowns at a softly twitching mass of flesh.

Static dances at his fingers, and he reaches into the keyhole, wraps his hand around the fleshy thing. He squeezes. Feels it _pop_ -

Wakes up.

He stares at the roof of his hotel room, a blue tint to the light as the sun starts to rise. A headache pulses at his temples. Dehydration from taking too many of his pills, and perhaps the distant remnants of the hangover he'd somehow otherwise avoided. Steadfast, he ignores the lingering memory of his dream.

He eats breakfast at the hotel, and considers what to do with himself. 'Spend some time in the city', Max had suggested, and despite what Lily thought, he's not running from anything, so he has no intention of returning to the firm. With his limited pills he needs to stay calm. He ends up just wandering the streets, stopping at a cafe for lunch, and by the end of the day, his legs are a little sore, and he's gone through the remaining two pills after getting lost, but they day as a whole has been relaxing, he's shucked off most of his worry about dealing with Max and the Jekyll family affairs. So things are going well, he thinks.

He spends the following day visiting museums. Uncertain how long he's actually going to stay in London for. Technically speaking, he's done. He told Max the truth, he has no intention of being involved with the Jekyll family, so whatever happens to their affairs is now none of his business. He'll perhaps drop in once he's gotten more medication and sort out how to completely extricate himself from the family affairs.

He's just gone back to the hotel on his third day in London when he gets a call, he doesn't recognise the number, but he picks up anyway.

"Hello?"

" _Robert, dear?_" He recognises the voice of Emma Sunders, who rents the house next to his parents, and he can't fathom why she'd be calling.

"Yes, this is Robert. I didn't know you had my number, Mrs Sunders." He says, voice jovial, light and slightly confused.

" _Your parents gave it to me in case of an emergency. _"

"Oh." He says, flat and with growing worry.

" _Robert, I'm so sorry, there's been a fire._" Mrs Sunders voice shakes.

"I-" he reaches for his pills, remembers he doesn't have any left, and tries to swallow his anxiety in place of his medication, "Are they okay?"

" _Oh Robert, I'm so sorry._" Her voice sounds inadequate, swallowed by the static of the phone speakers, and his rising understanding of the situation.

" _Are they okay?_ " He demands, low, forceful and terrified to his core.

" _I'm afraid nobody survived the fire -_" oh, he thinks, _oh_ , his grip tightens on the phone, " _- if you need someone to stay with, my home is always open to you Robert. I'm here for you however you need and-_"

He gasps out a broken noise around a rising electricity in his brain, "I- I'm sorry I can't- I'll- This is a lot- I need- Can I call you back?"

" _Of course, Robert. Take all the time you need._"

He hangs up. Stares blankly at his phone, his grip tightening. He makes a low keening noise that catches in his throat. A kind of desperate vibration as his body shakes with a slowly eclipsing grief. His grip tightens, grief into rage into the all encompassing need to break something. To wreak some sort of havoc as recompense for the things and feelings he doesn't know how to voice. Warm tears prick at his eyes and he makes a low and wild noise as his phone cracks, pops and _splinters_ in his hands.

Half hysterical, he thinks, _'I suppose I won't be calling her back after all.'_

He gets to his feet, stumbles and throws the useless broken thing across the room, it embeds itself in the wall and he snarls at it. Gods above he needs his pills. He needs something. He can't think over the thunder of his brain. Can't focus through licks of lightning.

He paces, restraining the need to ruin something else. To act out in pure physicality. If he's moving and doing anything else, he's not thinking about fire and he needs to stop thinking. He wants so very much to stop thinking.

He spins, very nearly puts his fist through the wall because he _needs to move. To do something. Anything! He needs to not be thinking, he needs-_ He needs his family to be okay, but that's not an option. Rage twists up in his gut, dances around his distress like they're old friends. He's crying and making barely human noises and trying to sort some semblance of sense into himself, but there's no sense to be had, just emotions he's not sure what to do with. _He's never let himself feel before. Too afraid of his condition, too afraid of himself, but there's no more pills, just raw emotion, and he slips-_

_Spirals._

_Splinters-_

\---

He makes his way to The Empire, unfinished business on the brain and a desperate need to drown his thoughts out. He's heard a thing or two about drowning your grief, and he's very interested in testing the theory out. The old man isn't at the bar, so he's able to order a drink with little problem and sequester himself in a dark corner. He glares out over the pub crowd. Looking for something to do, or someone to hurt. Finally, he spots something he can interject in. Some asshole hitting on a woman who couldn't be less interested and he doesn't care about protecting the woman, but gods does he care to get into a fight. He climbs to his feet, wanders over with a drunken wobble that is entirely put on, and smashes his fist into the guys nose. He drops backwards and Robert grins.

"How about you leave the nice lady alone?" He quips.

The guy has friends, which is just _wonderful_ , because that means Robert has some more folks to try and sort his emotions out on. It's not a fight, it's not even really a brawl, but it's something to burn energy and thoughts on and that is enough. He takes on anyone who comes at him. Flings a table at some idiot, knocks any adversary to the floor, and he's almost enjoying himself, but not quite. Not quite. It's not enough. He doesn't know that anything could be. There's a hollow spot under his ribs where it feels like someone tore out flesh and left the wound to fester, but he ignores it. Focuses on the here and now. The buzz of a song on the radio played for the whole bar, on the feel of motion and impact and almost pain where some folks have gotten in some lucky hits. It's almost enough.

It's almost perfectly quiet, but he never stops thinking, and there's enough focus left over to linger on the thoughts of _fire and dreams of smoke_. He has to wonder if they suffered. He has to wonder what he's going to do now. Where he's going to go. He can't not wonder, and it twists underneath his desperate attempts to bury it and forget, and he wishes the alcohol was more effective, but he's no more than slightly tipsy, and even that is fading.

Someone runs at him, and he tosses them aside, falling back into the swing of the fight. It's not quite enough, but it'll have to do. It'll have-

The radio blares, suddenly impossibly loud, and everyone freezes, even Robert. The old man is glaring down at them from a stool next to the radio, he turns it back down, slowly climbing off the stool, next to him, a young woman, dark skinned and with an unrelenting stare.

She speaks up, firm and unyielding, "Next asshole I see fighting is going home in an ambulance, you hear me?"

The silence stretches, but no one makes a move to fight. Her eyes settle on Robert, and she glares. He supposes he's gotten himself kicked out of another bar then. He turns, goes to make his leave, but pain begins to blossom in his lower back, he reaches back a hand and it comes away bloody. He stares uncomprehending. His legs feel weak.

There's arms around his shoulders and he's being walked/dragged from the premises. Wound in his back. Bleeding heavily. Requires medical attention, he thinks. Could bleed out. Could go into shock. He's in an alley, not out the front. Sitting/leaning against the wall, the old man is staring down at him. He blinks, uncomprehendingly. He thinks the old man is talking, but he can't hear it over the lightning-desperate thrum of his own thoughts.

The woman arrives, gestures at him angrily, before her eyes widen. Shock. He thinks.

_Slap!_

The old man's hand hits him with no warning and rage twists up in response, "Are you listening boy?"

Robert growls, all reaction and simmering rage, "What the hells wrong with you?"

"You've been stabbed boy, and you're not going to survive it if you can't focus. You need to get angry." The old man blathers, nonsense words and nonsense intent.

"I hardly see why you should care." Robert spits.

"I don't want a dead body on my hands. Now, some piece of crap has jammed a filthy piece of broken glass in your back. What are you going to do about it?" The old man has an unwavering intensity about him, and Robert's on his feet before he can think better of it.

"I'm gonna tear his godsdamned throat out." He hisses, heading for the door back to the bar. The woman's arm stops him.

"Not in my bar, you're not, and not while you're bleeding all over the place." The woman says.

He growls out a noise that's barely human and goes to retort when he feels the glass shift, and then _pull free_ of his back. He stumbles, drops to his knees and screams at the sudden swimming pain of it.

His brain sparks, vibrant and bursting patterns behind his eyes he can't comprehend, that swim across his vision and warp his sense of self so brutally there's nothing for it but to give into void.

Wisely, he passes out.

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely self indulgent, but man, I'm not going to apologize, I'm having fun.


End file.
